Glad to be wrong

I was off by two entire weeks. I am not sure this is something to celebrate, but I will happily admit to being wrong.

I wrote two weeks ago about New Orleans' soaring crime rate and its place as the current murder capital of the US...and about our personal losses this year. At the time, I inferred from the trend that we would tally our 100th murder of 2007 by that weekend.

I was wrong. That happened yesterday.

Yeesh.

Note: Yes, it's been a tough year (actually going on two now). But. We are not walking around, heads down, on the verge of tears everyday. Just like anywhere else in the world, we have good and bad days. We live, we love, we fight, we die. The daily images (blue roofs, delapidated buildings, water lines, empty neighborhoods, etc.) are challenging reminders of what we've been through and continue to go through and what we will face for an immeasurable time to come.

Here's what I want from you, the reader, this week: Ask the questions you think you shouldn't ask. Ask the questions polite society tells you not to ask. Set your tact and civility aside for a while and either leave your questions in the comments or email me if you prefer anonymity.

Curiosity reigns. If you've ever wanted to know anything about New Orleans as it was during the time of Katrina and in the nearly two years since, it's all fair game.

It's time for me to exorcise some demons, and y'all can help.

Peace. Your Ambassador.

And The Winner is...

Fifteen years ago, shortly after arriving in New Orleans, I submitted a couple short monologues to a local professional theatre company, in hopes of getting into their Southern New Plays Festival.

This was at a time in my life (I was only 23) when I didn't think that I couldn't win, that my work wasn't good enough, that I wasn't part of the "in" crowd of New Orleans writers. Turned out it didn't matter, because they picked one of my pieces. It was produced as part of an evening of monologues and short plays - repeated over several weekends.

Soccer Mom came to one of my nights - I have the most wonderful picture taken by the future Mr. Soccer Mom, of SM and me - beaming after the performance. It's one of my favorite photos, and one of the first I stripped from its elegant gilt frame the morning of my belated evacuation from New Orleans.

That night seems so long ago.

I had more hair on my head than on my chest.

Soccer Mom wasn't Soccer Mom yet, and the world knew nothing of Blogging. (Is that really possible??)

Now, don't get me wrong. Soccer Mom was already saving the world, one kid at a time. I had notebooks full of short notes and long essays that have started to find their ways into my posts in the last few months.

I guess we were laying the groundwork for what we'd become.

Has it all turned out the way we imagined back then?

Erm, not really.

Is it better than we knew it might be?

Hell, yes!

Today, I will be heading out the door to church, but on my way, I will be stopping by Le Chat Noir, a sensational Cabaret Theatre that has done a remarkable job of carving out a lovely corner of creativity in the city's theatre scene. There, I will be dropping off my submission for their Fall New Plays Festival Competition. They will be picking only 3 of the first 20 one act play scripts they receive.

I've written something of which I am very proud. Neither Soccer Mom nor I are characters in the story, but part of what I know from her (and the other strong women in my life) has found its way into this piece. Hopefully, I captured how much I adore and respect them all - and I really hope I've allowed these women to come across as real, vibrant beings of passion and joy and pain and daring and love.

It would be almost more than I could stand if they pick my play.

Truth is, seeing this play up on the stage would be exhilirating.

But, if you ask me, I've already won.

I have Soccer Mom in my life.

Dawn of a New Day (In More Ways than One)

OK. Two months shy of two years since Katrina, and I finally have internet service at home. Someday, I'll have enough distance to find the humor in the long road to here...but for now, I am just happy to have service.

Of course, it did come at a price. Rather than getting to sleep in at all on a Saturday morning (and my apologies to all the parents who don't ever get that luxury), I had no choice but to accept their earliest appointment - 8AM today.

No complaints. I have wicked (for you Allison) high speed connection and the privacy of my home. Ahhh....

Let the blog-barrage commence!!

Something Bugging You?

It's been a tough year, even by New Orleans standards.

One of the things that I've always admired (and I must admit it's part of the city's appeal to me) about New Orleans is how it deals with tragedy. Some folks found their way to Louisiana through hardships in their homelands, others suffered upon arrival. So many different groups, with just about as many different kinds of suffering. Yellow Fever. Hurricanes. AIDS.

So much of what makes this region what it is today comes indirectly from the struggles it has endured. That will be what makes us stronger as we move through this ongoing recovery.

However.

It's been a really tough year.

New Orleans is still way below it's pre-Katrina population of 450, 000+. Recent estimates put us at less than half that, depending on which survey and what agency is in whose pocket to set the numbers high or low. That makes us now officially a small city. Smaller than Plano, TX. Tinier than Anchorage, AK. Embarrassingly diminutive next to the likes of Jersey City, Lexington, and Buffalo.

(Not that we're obsessed with size.)

However, if you haven't caught any of our news recently, it seems that people are just dying to get into New Orleans. Or maybe that's not quite right. Dying to stay, perhaps?

This past weekend brought our fair city its 90th and 91st murders. A handful of arrests have been made. No convictions this year. This is not the post to dwell on why. I don't have that kind of time just now. Most of those are gang/drug related retaliation killings. I once thought that you could fairly easily avoid the parts of the city where all this is happening.

I was wrong.

And now it's personal.

Last week, Robin was found beaten to death in his Marigny home. The Faubourg Marigny is the wonderful sprawling neighborhood adjacent to the French Quarter, and my home for many years now. Robin's house is a mere 7 blocks from my apartment.

It's all too close now.

There haven't been any arrests in his murder, although the authorities have questioned a "person of interest". Robin's car was taken at the time and found burned out some blocks away, either in an attempt to make it look like a robbery or some such act gone bad. Truth is we just don't know the truth and might never know.

But like I said, it's personal now. Robin rode the school bus with my friends Mark and Chrissie. He managed a bar that I frequented throughout my most formative years in the city. He was a champion of many causes, using his more recent success at the salon he owned with his sister to raise money for AIDS and breast cancer research. And as recently as October 2006, Robin had been interviewed by WDSU NewsChannel 6 regarding crime in New Orleans:

"Drive-by muggings -- I mean, there's guys riding around in vehicles just mugging people, jumping in their vehicles, going around the corner, mugging somebody else," Malta said. "I'd like to see the mayor actually walk Marigny Street, from Charters to Rampart Street, by himself at 3 o'clock in the morning. I guarantee you he'd get mugged."

No irony there, eh?

In 1997, Robin reigned as Southern Decadence Grand Marshall, and single-handedly scared the crap out of a whole hell of a lot of military guys when the parade he was leading intersected with the Labor Day Parade in the Quarter. In full "I Dream of Jeanie" costume, he mounted the running board of the nearest Humvee as it slowly cruised down the street. Holding onto the driver's side mirror and waving his free arm wildly, singing at the top of his lungs as the parade crawled along Decatur Street - I can still hear him belting out the theme song now.

It's up to us to remember in our own ways each person who's gone now. But it's more than murders. It's all kinds of death now.

It appeared to start with older friends - struggling with myriad afflictions, and exacerbated by the effort of recovery - started to succumb more rapidly. A shocker for me was Sandra. Sandra (whom I always pictured as 40ish) passed away at the tender age of 67 after struggling through the horror of Alzheimer's. I first met Sandra in 1991, weeks after I arrived in NOLA at a P-FLAG meeting - she was president of this chapter for 15 years and spearheaded the national meeting here in 1993. I had not seen her since the storm.

I sang with our church choir at a truly moving memorial service last week for a former choir member at my church. Chris was described during the service as a magnificently kind and elegant woman - and she was. But, oh...she could be salty when she wanted to be. It was her kindness and elegance that made her saltiness shocking and yet acceptable.

Arly, the owner of a local pub and grub, suffered a devastating 45 minute seizure that left her in a vegetative state for 2 weeks before she mercifully slipped away one day. My dear friend Venette's wife Cate worked for Arly for years - and I had the great honor of attending the wedding rehearsal dinner Arly and her partner Louis through for Cate and Venette. Lord, did they throw down some food that night!

An officer in a nearby parish died in an on-duty accident 10 days ago. During the car procession to his funeral, a violent summer storm blew up - winds so fierce they knocked a huge tree over onto the car of two officers on their way to the service...killing one officer and critically injuring the other.

A New Orleans officer took his own life just days before standing trial for brutally beating an unarmed 65 year old retired teacher in the early repopulation after Katrina.

So much death following so many months of struggle to bring this city back to life...

Before the week is over, New Orleans will have its 100th murder. Like other bloodier milestones, this is not one to celebrate.

Somehow, we...We will come through. We will grieve. We will deal with tragedy. We may employ some clearly inappropriate humor and drink a bit too much to do it, but we'll deal.

We - together - will get through this.

There are only two things certain right now in New Orleans. The first is daunting, but the second is much more powerful.

1. More death will come to our city.


2. We will rise.
   

(For those of you wondering where I've been and why I haven't been posting to the blog, it's been a really tough couple of weeks. And this post was trying to get out.)

Pity/Envy

I get those looks all the time.

What is a guy his age doing, riding a bike to work?

Truth is, I've only ever owned one car in my life...and I sold that 15 years ago this month. Since then, I have owned six bikes of varying quality and expense.

And I get those looks.

Poor thing, he can't afford a car.

Actually, I can.

I just choose not to, and because I choose not to, I can afford to do a lot of other things. Like live in the neighborhood of my choice, near the Mississippi River...where it hasn't flooded in a long time. Travel. Regularly eat out at some really sensational restaurants. Maneuver through rush hour traffic nimbly. And when I really need a vehicle, I have many friends who will loan me theirs, all for the price of a home cooked meal.

Oh, and I can afford to rent a car for the weekend. If I so choose.

I choose to bike to work everyday. Yes, it's hot in the summer...and brutally humid. But, I leave for work a little earlier, keep a change of shirts at the office, splash my face (and head - shaving the dome is a blessing sometimes) with some cold water. And if it's raining, I have friends I can call on to hitch a lift with. Or - get this - I can take a taxi. Radical, eh?

I don't have a car note. Or insurance premiums to pay. That's how I can live in the apartment I love, in a part of town that I cherish, near neighbors I really care about.

Looks of pity. Hmm. All over a choice?

Now, it's other looks. These make me a bit more uncomfortable.

It's envy. I'm not spending $3+ a gallon on gas. As I pull up to the office building, deftly hopping off my cost-effective conveyance, I get that look. I don't spend an hour or two a day in road-rage inducing gridlock. At the end of the day, it'll take me 7 (yes, that's seven) minutes to get home...and that's only if I am puttering along.

Envy's a dirty look, no matter who it's coming from.

All this because I ride a bike to work?


Today's post is brought to you in honor of Dump the Pump Day. It didn't get a ton of publicity in New Orleans, partly due to the fact that our public transit system belongs in the Great Oxymoron File with jumbo shrimp, legal brief and Justice Rehnquist - but today is Dump the Pump Day "dedicated to raising awareness that public transportation helps improve the environment and conserve fuel. It also offers the opportunity for people to beat the high price of gasoline and support public transportation as an important travel option that helps reduce our dependence on foreign oil." American Public Transportation Association Website.

Today's Other Holiday

On this day in 1976, my 2nd grade teacher announced to the class that we'd be learning about a very special holiday that day. I thought, "Wow, she must be really smart! How in the world could she know that today is my parents' anniversary?!?!?"

Oh. Flag Day.

I was modestly disappointed, but it did give me a cool way of remembering both holidays.

When my parents divorced in 1980, I started marking the day differently..."If they'd stayed married, this would be their Nth Anniversay. The weirdest one for me was when we hit 23 years since the divorce - just as long as they'd been married

Both of my folks have remarried, Dad for 24 years and Mom for 1 year next month - what can I say, she's a particular kind of gal. I really like both of my step-parents, and there was a time in my college years that I got along better with my step-mom, Myra, than either Mom or Dad. Funny, that.

Today is Flag Day. And if my parents marriage had stood the test of time, this would have been their 50th Anniversary.

You know what? It's ok that it didn't. Life moved on, love came again to both of them in time, and it was by far the right decision for them and for the family.

Happy _____ Day, Everyone.

Sometimes...

You just have to throw a little beauty out there.

I was so lucky to have a brilliant sunny day to run around my neighborhood last weekend, taking pictures randomly here and there...this is the result.

I don't have a space that is large/sunny enough for waterlillies, so I headed over to a local nursery and was stunned by their new collection. I especially like the one above, because it isn't perfect - notice the browning petals.

Have you ever seen this many gradations of yellow in one blossom?

Now, when I shot this last one, I was just kind of hoping something interesting might come of it.

I wasn't disappointed.

This is the interior of an Angel's Trumpet bloom. I wish the resolution translated better to the blog, becuase the original is unbelievable.

I love the fact that stunning flowers like this grow in the hot-house climate that is Louisiana - there is a certain defiant thriving-through-neglect aspect to their existence that appeals to the survivor in me. The fact that so much of nature is burgeoning down here - despite everything - gives me hope.

Ah, the Power of Beauty.

Enjoy.

Being a Dad

Our guest writer today is Dale from What Ever You Want, Honey as part of The Blog Exchange (it's a lot of fun, you should check it out!) - meanwhile, your Ambassador is romping over at Dale's site. Glad to have you here today, Dale, and Cheers! Ken


In honor of Father’s Day, I decided to write a poem about my experiences. Most are not the norm, others are short melodramatic recounts of what happened and yet others are an edited version of what I was thinking.

Being a Dad
For as long as I can recall, my heart dreamed of having a child,
Not a boy to carry my name but a girl that’s sweet and mild.
Never the fanatic of all the ball games or of tinkering with some cars,
But of lying in a pastel field contently dreaming with the stars.

Then I wed my dearest friend, set off to foreign lands,
To relieve our discontented minds of the work done by our hands.
We worked hard and played a lot and failed a pregnancy or two,
Kept trying to conceive but to no avail, still childless and so blue.

A call came from someone I’d not talked to in years,
Who asked us a question that brought us both to tears.
We accepted her gift of a child, who was as of yet, unborn,
But fear of reprieve of this gift kept us somewhat forlorn.

Til the morning came a boy was born with a medical atrocity,
We welcomed him in our lives, “Still precious.” our philosophy.
He spent a month or more encapsulated in a wall of glass,
To touch him and stroke his face was all that we could ask.

The next few years became a blur as children grow so fast,
From doctor’s care to emergency rooms, it was such a blast,
Skinned knees, daredevil acts like running in front of cars,
Surprises me to this day that I din’t wind up in the bars.

Talks of manners and good conduct and how to treat a lady,
Asking the pastor on Sunday, loudly, about the creation of a baby.
Inquiring to me about Yu Gi Oh and then telling me I’m wrong,
Other quips and foibles that he spoke could be the content of a song.

With all the dangers and death’s close calls experienced by my son,
It’s a wonder he can still breathe, eat, sleep, play or even run.
Still all his pranks and tender hugs, makes me glad that he’s alive.
All this energy and quirkyness packed into a spirited boy of five.

I’m not superdad, the king of the world or a special breed of man,
I’m just a guy who has a son and is doing whatever he can,
To raise my boy in such a way to win the perfect bride,
So he can experience the joys of life with a child at his side.


As I was reading this to my wife and best friend, life happened. My son threw a major screaming tantrum, took off his shirt and whipped it around in circles like he was brandishing a whip and snapped it at my wife. Then proceeded to throw it in the air until it was stuck at the top of a cabinet.

Isn’t being a dad great?!

-D

This post is courtesy of the Blog Exchange Program (http://www.theblogexchange.net).

About the Author:
By day, Dale Noles of www.WhatEverYouWantHoney.com, is an entrepreneurial business owner. By night, he is an up and coming blogger. Dale has many passions. He loves helping others create successful businesses, designing websites, writing, spending time with his wife and son but most of all he loves Jesus. Dale is never short on wisdom and feels that husbands can have better marriages if they care enough to get to know their wives.

On the other hand...

"...don't pray when it rains if you don't pray when the sun shines..."

Satchel Paige

A Prayer for Tomorrow

You may already know, but tomorrow, June 1, is designated as the official start to the 2007 Atlantic Hurricane season. Sounds more like a sporting event, eh?

I have a favor to ask of all of you. Seriously. I know recent posts of mine have tended toward the frivolous and absurd, but this is it. No kidding around now.

Do whatever works for you - light a candle, sing a song, hug your child closer, say a prayer, ring a bell, dance nude, plant a tree, meditate - whatever it is, we'll take it. Whatever it is you do that brings you closer to whatever it is in this universe that's more powerful than us - do it now.

Please.

Last year was about making a stand in New Orleans, and all the Gulf South - Damn it! We're home and no one can take that away from us. The adrenaline alone carried us along very nicely, thank you. (OK, some spite too, the kind that comes from daring to succeed despite the government's best attempts to prevent it.)

Somehow, this year is scarier because it's just about making it through. We need to make it through this season. We have to make it through. We have to.

And that's where you come into the picture. You want to help? Say a prayer tomorrow.

And then again every day until this season is over.

It's posts like this that just tumble out that make me realize that I never quite honestly answer some of those interview meme questions - I first answered what's your worst quality? by saying it was Procrastination - and let me tell you, that puppy is up there in teh rankings. But really, it's not even close to the truth. The worst?

It scares me/breaks my heart/crushes the brave good man in me to have to ask for help. So...here I am at my worst.

Fag Hag in Training

In honor of my dear sweet friend Soccer Mom in Denial, I want to share a moment from this weekend. It struck me as especially appropriate, considering her post today.

We stepped into a local watering hole to cool off - and to mark the official start to summer with a Huge Frozen Separator. These things are Heaven in a cup. Separators are not daquiris, but more like a really good, somewhat lethal frozen White Russian. With whipped cream on top. And a cherry. Not something you can chug, but must work slowly at, forcing you to slow down and cool down all at once. Just be careful how they sneak up on you, especially the 2nd one. Socccer Mom's had more than one Separator in her lifetime...

Relaxing. Chair Dancing. Huge Frozen Separators. People Watching.

Oh, the people watching in the French Quarter is always a treat, but even more so during major holidays. This particular watering hole has enormous doors, flung open to the elements with nothing to hide and AC to spare. From our perch, we'd seen lots of different kinds of families trot on by, some of them brave enough to look in and notice that there were mostly men in the bar - and that of the few women, some of them looked like men. And today, lots of families with lots of kids.

But she was my favorite.

A young girl of maybe 7 years was bopping down the sidewalk with Mom, Dad and big brother. Just as they got to the corner next to the bar and were preparing to cross the street, the music changed.

The girl turned on a dime and started moving. Really moving.

Mom tugged at her hand to come along. Dad admonished her to stay close to him.

Hah. Nice try, folks.

"Hey! I am dancing here! And. Oh. My. God. It's KYLIE!"

OK, I don't know where a 7 year old learns to worship Kylie Minogue, but her parents at that point saw the wisdom of letting her dance it out right there and then. Talk about a young lady who's well on her way.

To what, I can't really say, but I bet she'll have fun on the way.

Of course, her folks did also manage to find their way into the bar and into the world of Huge Frozen Separators. The music changed again and off they went.

"Hey! I'm dancing here!"

We should all be so firm in our conviction to dance.

Dry Spells

Contradictory to some rather substantial outside opinions, New Orleans isn't exactly waterlogged. In fact, for the second year running, we are more than 12" below our average yearly rainfall to date. That's good, right?

Erm. No.

Really.

Take a city. Fill with water (and various other discharges) for several weeks. Drain slowly.

Allow a good portion of those once-flooded buildings (plus all the ones that've been gutted but hang in insurance-limbo-hell) to remain empty, mouldering and drying to a nice tinder-like status for, oh say...21 months. Resume baking in a long hot summer, omitting customary rain patterns.

Spontaneous combustion, anyone?

Oh, and when the rains do come, none of the usual forces of adhesion and cohesion (come on, folks, remember your high school Earth Science and Chemistry classes) get to play their traditional roles. The water that usually helps the soil stay in place just isn't and doesn't. So long, topsoil. Hello, runoff.

New Orleans isn't experiencing a drought, not technically anyway. When you are surrounded by the Mississippi River, Lake Pontchartrain, swamps, bayous, canals, intercoastal waterways and wig-frying humidity, you're never quite close to a drought.

Still, we could use a little more rain.

So, despite threatening to impede all kinds of wonderful Memorial Day Weekend activities and plans, not too many people were really all that upset when the skies over New Orleans began to look like this yesterday.

And sometimes...

Sometimes it gets really really dark before a dry spell ends.

Shadow & Light II

Heavenly!

This is my first season singing with the New Orleans Symphony Chorus, and it's Show Time tonight. We will be performing Carl Orff's less-than-modest work, Carmina Burana.

Wow. Big music, exhausting exhilarating BIG music. Adrenalin. Goosebumps. And by the end of the weekend, shredded wheat for vocal cords. Oh, and I still have to show up on Sunday to sing in church...no rest for the wicked.

It's been a whole lot of fun learning this piece, but getting to know the other Chorus members has been a wonderful side benefit. Many of them also sing at churches around the Metro area - it's a great town for all kinds of musicians.

I didn't grow up around a lot of Catholics (pre-Canada is Protestant country), and so I will confess (yes, pun intended) to the occasional inappropriate response to some church names - the first time I heard Our Lady of Prompt Succor, I giggled for weeks.

I learned a new one last week that reduced to laugh-tears: Church of the Holy Comforter. Well, in the wrong hands, this went south quickly - think of the accessories to go along with a Holy Comforter: you'll need Sacred Pillows, the Blessed Linens...and, of course, a simply Divine Dust Ruffle!

My new Catholic friends in the Chorus were not amused.

Too bad. I'm still giggling.

How Can I Keep From Singing?

I cannot recall a time in my life when I didn't sing. Doesn't matter if I'm happy or sad or moving half a country away to a new life or cleaning the oven. I sing. That's who I am. And there's always a song that fits every occasion. Ask me - I bet I know a song for almost anything you've got.

Yesterday, I did not sing.

I went so far as to skip one of our last rehearsals for the Symphony Chorus of New Orleans' performance of Carl Orff's Carmina Burana (you may recognize the opening number, O Fortuna, from lots of movies and too many figure skating competitions).

And I never miss rehearsals.

It's not that I couldn't sing yesterday. I physically could, but it would not have been pretty. I probably would have been a liability at that point. No, the point is that I didn't sing.

Didn't even want to.

That is so rare as to be mind-bending to me. I've had bronchitis that didn't keep me down when I should have been. Last minute weddings or funerals? Nothing to it! Your Miss Lynch broke her leg a week before the opening of Grease? Bring it on!

But not yesterday. Why not is a story for another day. I am still living that story and cannot bear to tell it yet...

This morning, I woke up with an old hymn running through my head - quite a blissful way to start a Tuesday. Written by Robert Lowrey, How Can I Keep From Singing was a staple in our church growing up Methodist in Northern New York State (pre-Canada). Our choir here does a sublime arrangement of this tune by Russell Schulz-Widmar... and all modesty aside, we do it extraordinarily well. Sixteen years after my first time singing it with them, I still get goosebumps. It's a most marvelous union of text and harmonies. Goosebumps.

We've performed it twice since returning to our city and our lives, post-evacuation. It means even more to us all now. It has never failed to comfort me. Today was no exception. I woke up to this:

My life flows on in endless song;
Above Earth's lamentations,
I hear the sweet, tho' far-off hymn
That brings a new creation.
All through the tumult and the strife,
I hear the music ringing.
It finds an echo in my soul -
How can I keep from singing?

Today, I will sing.

And today, I will shine.

Thank you to all my friends who reminded me to let it out and shine for all I'm worth.

Shadow & Light

Another French Quarter Moment

We stayed.

Because we stayed, we were able to bear witness to what happened in the days following Hurricane Katrina, when the levees broke and flooded more than 3/4 of our beautiful old city.

Looting. Buildings on fire. Flooding. Majestic Oaks denuded. Gunshots.

Ah. But the other side. There are so many stories you don't hear.

Without power to keep it cold (and safe), food had to be cooked. And man, can people in New Orleans cook. So we did.

And in the process, we fed many friends, neighbors...and on our last night in the Quarter before our Exodus, many strangers too. A neighbor leaving town brought us 2 turkeys that he didn't want to throw out (and didn't want to face in his freezer whenever he returned) - my apartment had gas still, so we cooked the turkeys, stripped the meat, added veggies and seasoning and Voila! Turkey Soup Surprise. After eating our fill, we armed ourselves with ladles and started touring the neighborhood.

We dubbed ourselves The Soup Ladies.

I regret not having a picture of this moment, but the memory is still just as strong today. We knocked on doors, shouted into courtyards, and just generally offered what we had to anyone who was hungry.

Oh. That. Hunger.

We were all hungry most of each day. One meal a day, with a handful of granola or cereal randomly throughout the day. And here was this hot meal, arriving so unexpectedly.

We got hugs. A young hipster broke down and cried. One guy made us some very strong cocktails - we chose not to ask him where he got the ice, or how he was keeping it frozen. Somethings, you just don't need to know.

And then the soup was gone. Mission Accomplished. Drunky McStagger should be so lucky.

We did not walk through water to feed anyone. The French Quarter did not flood. You may have seen some idiots wading through waist-deep water, claiming they were on Bourbon Street - having just seen an alligator/shark/piranha just swim by. My favorite was the young lady (I chose another phrase at first, but it wasn't very nice) who was in a kayak, dramatically reporting on this and that, when a man walked across directly behind her. Through a couple inches of water. Yeesh.

No flooding there. Yes, we did see the water in other neighborhoods. We probably saw too much before we finally left.

Only one friend asked (because she had to) if I'd seen any bodies.

No.

We were spared. I will always be grateful for that.

Here it is, 20 months later - and so much is still untold, still misunderstood. Still so vastly misrepresented. We know that rest of the world will never hear all the stories or understand everything that happened or comprehend why some of us stayed when we could have gotten out.

We don't expect that - and at times, I think it would diminish what we've come through if the whole world did understand.

Mostly these day, we just want to get on with life.

Not life as it was. That's gone.

Life as it is. Life.

We just want to live. In our city. In our ways. With our friends and neighbors and folks who aren't quite strangers anymore.

And so we live.

I apologize if anyone thought the photo from yesterday's post was of a flooded French Quarter immediately post-Levee Failure. It was actually taken shortly after a heavy rain in June 2006 - one of the very few rains of any amount that we've had since Katrina. (The city is almost 12" behind in rainfall this year already - that translates to burn bans and cancelled fireworks.) That puddle formed because the catch basin and drain had not been properly cleaned out since Katrina - a city responsibility now left to citizens.

A moment in the French Quarter

Grover Dancing

I've had better weeks.

Work has been rather all-consuming this week. I got an email from BF Thursday afternoon, shortly after learning that I'd be working on Saturday, on top of the 50 hours I'd already put in. He was writing to ask me if I wanted to go to Ogden After Hours. At that point, I was so mind-numbingly exhausted that I couldn't imagine being very good company for an evening out for art and music.

Wait. That was exactly what I needed at that point. The Ogden Museum of Southern Art hosts a weekly series of Louisiana musicians performing in the building's stunning atrium. Free for members (that's us!), with wine and beer available for a modest "donation". Yes, that's exactly what I needed.

The new exhibit of Herman Leonard photographs was extraodinarily moving - pairing his iconic jazz images from the 50's and 60's with contemporary (yet pre-Katrina) photos of New Orleans life. Billie Holiday - Angel with Smoke. A sexy shot of a shirtless Lenny Kravits on one of his many sojourns to our city. Swing dancers at The Palm Court Cafe in 1996, looking as though they'd traveled in time just for that number. So sublime...

But. Oh. I realized I had tears running down my face as I took in one in particular.

Inside an unidentified church here in Louisiana, a Creole Mass is taking place. A woman is jubilantly dancing down the aisle, all in flowing white with a matching parasol. Joy, absolute pure undiluted unsullied unselfconscious joy. Joy so great there was no way to keep it in, no other way to express it than to dance. Joy.

We headed back to the atrium to hear some standards by James Andrews and his New Orleans All-stars - music I associate more with Mardi Gras, probably because it gets more air time then, but music that moves you - and, better still, makes you move. Now, we were looking down into the atrium from the second floor landing, listening and people watching. And then I spotted him. I'd never seen this man before, but he was having fun.

No.

That doesn't do it justice. He was having Joy.

He was dancing, all within a space respectful of other folks around him - and careful not to spill his beer. Loose limbed, head grooving (and not in the Billy Crystal from When Harry Met Sally way) - he was so in his body, to borrow from SMID's Blog Exchange post earlier this week. Instead of crying this time, I started giggling. BF asked what was so funny - I pointed down below and said the fateful words...

"Grover Dancing!"

That was it. Peals of laughter melted the week and the worries away and all I wanted to do was find my Grover Dancing place too. I wanted that joy.

No. I crave that Joy.

I think we all do, and sometimes we have to be reminded that it's out there for us when we're ready.

When we're ready to be like Grover.

And Dance.

Well, I've Never!!

A few years ago (before BF), I had the misfortune of briefly dating a man who, it turned out, was absolutely nuts. Certifiable. I think it was on the third date - after a long and far-ranging discussion of like and dislikes, hobbies and talents, pet peeves and predelictions - that he exclaimed (and I am not joking here), "You're a freaking theatre fag!"

Why, yes...yes, I am.

It wasn't that he'd said it at all, it was how...some great condemnation of things I hold near and dear to my heart. Admittedly, I can recite Sondheim lyrics until I'm blue in the face, I did see A Chorus Line twice in the six months before it closed on Broadway, and I have always been a firm believer that it's a crime to have to use a body mike for a musical - if you can't sell it to the cheap seats, you don't have any right to be on the stage in the first place. (Courtesy of the Ethel Merman School of Belting 'Em Out)

All that aside, I thought about what he'd said for a long time, and weeks later (long after we'd stopped dating), it occurred to me that with so many stereotypes of gay men out there, I could live with being known as a theatre fag - even a freaking theatre fag - and that there were so many things I could have said in my own defense...if only I'd thought of them quickly enough.

So here goes...As I picture the moment now, I hear him say it, and I reply, "Well, I've never!"

I may be a freaking theatre fag, but...

I've never been to a Cher concert (or Madonna, Tina Turner, Bette Midler, Barbra Streisand, Donna Summer, Barry Manilow, Erasure, Pet Shop Boys, Patti LaBelle...)

I've never watched the movie Gladiator, even just for the spectacle of seeing Russell Crowe sweat...a lot...

I've never gone to a nude beach...even just to watch...a lot...

I've never been to Fire Island, San Francisco, or Key West...

I've never been to Gay Day at Disney World...hell, I've never been to Disney World at all!

I've never named a pet after Erica Kane...or any other Soap Opera character...

I've never married/slept with one of my fag hags...

I've never asked one of my fag hags to bear a child for me - nor have I been asked by one of my lesbian friends to donate sperm...

I've never subscribed to Advocate, International Male, Southern Living, Marth Stewart Living, GQ, Mens Fitness...

I've never been a member of any fan club for any celebrity, even when I was a teen..

I've never thought so much of my gayness and natural fabulocity as to offer to actually cut a friend's hair...or an enemy's hair, for that matter...

I've never been on a gay cruise...or a straight one either...

I've never watched Gone With The Wind for start to finish...

I've never had a facial or a manicure or a pedicure...that I didn't give to myself...

I've never blamed my homosexuality on my parents' divorce...or my pastor or my gym teacher or camp counselor...although prolonged early exposure to images of Patrick Duffy in that skimpy little swimsuit as The Man from Atlantis may have helped push me over the edge...just a little...

I've never bought/used Rogaine...yet...(a bit too late for that, eh?)

I've never had any body part waxed...yet...

I've never been disowned by a family member...yet...

I've never had a gym membership...(you were expecting a yet here too?)

I've never seen either of the Queer as Folk series...

I've never owned anything by Gucci, Versace, Armani, Hugo Boss...(If I can't find it at The Gap Mothership, then I probably don't need/can't budget it!)

I've never dressed up as any incarnation of Judy Garland, Liza Minelli, Patsy Kline, Dolly Parton, Bette Midler...

There's so much out there in the media today (pun intended) that makes up the American collected knowledge base of All Things Clearly Gay - that's just not me.

Well, not all of me, anyway.

I am curious. What is it for you, dear readers, that sets off your Gaydar?

May Blog Exchange!

“What do you want for Mother’s Day?”

“Whatever. I don’t know.”

“No seriously, what do you want?”

I pause for a second in my toddler meal preparation and think. Last year I had a long list of things I wanted, but now I can’t come up with anything.

“Let me think about it, I’m sure I’ll come up with something.” I give M a quick kiss and turn back to my frozen vegetables.

Over the next few days my mind drifts to the question at hand and then drifts away again. I keep coming up empty. What do moms want for Mother’s Day? I poll one of my many online message boards and I laugh at the responses. Moms? For Mother’s Day? They want time, and lots of it. They want solitude. They want peace and quiet. Basically, these moms want a break from their routine. Well that’s all fine and dandy, but it doesn’t help me. I’m teaching Sunday School in the morning and going to a family brunch right after. I’ll be lucky if I get a half hour nap let alone a day on my own, so it’s back to the drawing board.

Suddenly it comes to me. I know what I want for Mother’s Day. I want to celebrate what I love most about being a mother. I want to spend some quality time alone with my husband and my daughter. We spend all of our days running around, going from one important appointment to another. The time we spend together is always punctuated by yet another task to accomplish or another errand to run. In three short months our little family will be forever changed and before that happens I want to stop and take a moment to really enjoy our little trio.

“M?” I ask calling him at work. “I know what I want for Mother’s Day.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that?” I hear the relief in his voice. He thinks I’m going to ask for something easy to pick up at a local store.

“I want to go to San Diego with you and C for a long weekend early in June. I want to play at the beach with C. I want to go to the zoo.”

“Oh.”

“I need to spend some quality time with just you and C before the baby comes. That’s what I want for Mother’s Day.”

“I see.”

I hear the cogs whirring in M’s head. It’s not that he doesn’t want to spend time alone with us; it’s that he’s petrified of the flight. I know I’m asking a lot, but it’s what I really want, and I’m pretty sure M will agree in the end. He knows that I work hard to keep our lives running smoothly. He knows I deserve this. But I’m sure he still wishes I had asked for a day at the spa.

May all of the Mothers in the world have the day of their dreams, and the gifts they most desire!

This was a guest post written by Rose at It’s My Life... in honor of this month’s blog exchange.

When I’m not busy working, cooking, or running after my toddler, C, I’m usually hiding in the bathroom thinking up my next blog post or trying to read a chapter or two of the book I’m currently reading. When I do come up with something witty to write about, you can read it here (though I have to apologize, the baby within seems to have swallowed most of the wit these days…) where your usual blogger extraordinaire is blogging today.

Go on over and read his post and don’t forget to check out all the other blog exchange posts this month!

Sunset, Jackson Square

Chrysler Should Be Ashamed...

Look , I don't have children but I did teach for many years - and let's face it, I'm just a very tall, very bald kid. HOWEVER...

The new ad campaign for Chrysler minivans rankles me greatly. One ad features a lunchroom full of screaming, badly behaved grade schoolers, and the second is essentially the same group on a school bus. All commotion ceases when the adult in charge of each scene...wait for it...flips down the DVD screen. Silent, immobilized children...

OK, does anyone else find it appalling to imply that parents' and educators' only acceptable, successful method for interacting with kids is to plug them in to a TV? The ad isn't even funny, nor does it try to be. It's more wink-wink-gee-won't-your-life-suck-when-you-don't have-a-DVD-player-and-you-actually-have-to-talk-to-your-kids. Give people a little credit, would ya?

Oh, and this also happens to be Turn Off Your TV Week, too...

Coincidence? Hmmm...

Signs of Progress

Our church has been known for years as The Church of the Lighted Steeple, as it towered above the huge Live Oaks on St. Charles Avenue. That was, until August 2005 when Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans and blew the steeple off into our beautiful sanctuary. Since then, we've met in our thankfully large fellowship hall, with most Sundays at SRO capacity now. It may be cramped, but it's home.

Last week, the new steel structure that will support the steeple was erected - and days later, the scaffolding inside the sanctuary was removed! It is almost impossible to keep from crying when you see what an extraordinary job's been done in there. It's only a room, but it's a very special one to me and many of my adopted family in New Orleans. The pews aren't back yet, but we're getting there.

Through these months of recovery and mettle-testing, we've been led by a dynamic pastor who's been so moved by the outpouring of support from our congregation that she's started referring to us as The Church of the Lighted People. And there hasn't been a week since we were allowed back into the city that we haven't had volunteers from around the country sleeping on the floors in our Youth Room or Choir Room (or any available space some weeks) - including 8 separate trips from the wonderful folks at St. Luke United Methodist in Lincoln, Nebraska. It's equally impossible to be unbouyed by their kindness and generosity.

One day - soon - we hope, we'll be back in the sanctuary and our steeple will be restored to its former glory. And until then, we will continue to shine...

Why Not?

I commented on a post recently and received an incredibly kind personal response to it that has stayed with me, popping up every other day to nag and say, "blog about it"...so here goes.

I was 23 when I found out I was HIV positive. I was sure I would be dead well before 30.

I am now 39 and still fighting the good fight. During a powerful conversation a few months ago, Soccer Mom thanked me (through tears, albeit) for not giving up. I don't have a choice, surrounded by the strong women in my life who'd kick my ass if I did give up, or even show signs of starting to.

I can't think of it as totals...not in numbers of doctors visits, or vials of blood drawn, or hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of pills swallowed, or sleepless nights, or crying jags, or friends who lost the battle.

It's the years that come to me, piling up their profound weight and simply not going away. 16 years. Whether I want to or not, every July 9, my brain reminds me, "This is the day they told your life has changed forever." I do not recall much of my adult life not thinking about this. That changes a guy for good. Maybe not for the better, but certainly For Good.

So, the response I got from commenting on that post was this:

16 years is a long time.
not long enough.
go 16 more.
then 16 more.

sure. why not.

Someone who didn't know me had summed up in words I never would have found just exactly how I deal with every day of my life. Thank you, Daniel.

And you know what? Why not?

Answers to Pointed Questions

My dear friend Soccer Mom In Denial (SMID) has been gently cajoling me to get back in the blogosphere after a protracted absence. Now that I've returned, she's asked to interview me. I do notice a pronounced difference between the questions she's posed to me and the ones she received from Gunfighter. It's entirely different when you've known someone for 15 years...where she refers to me having a lot of "things", I like to think of it as nesting comfortably. Anyway, here are the answers to her questions - and I'll never be credited with being as succint as she was!

1. When was the last time you had a hairy spider on your head? 1999 - I was living in a great 3rd floor converted attic space on Burgundy Street in the French Quarter, when one night, I woke around 4AM, rather warm and itchy. I didn't think much about it, but when my alarm went off at 6:00, I knew something was wrong. I looked in the mirror and had tiny red welts all over the right side of my face. I guessed at what'd happened and decided my boss would never believe me.

I showered and dressed for work and then hopped on my bike for the 1 1/2 mile commute. The boss rolled in about 20 minutes after I arrived - and screamed at the top of her lungs. Apparently, my eye (and ear!) had started to swell shut...after a Benadryl and a few deep breaths, I called a friend of mine at Audbon Zoo who suggested that it was the right time of year for spider sacs to hatch, and that I was probably the closest warm thing for them to snack on.

We counted over 80 bites. I called my doctor, and she said to go home, sleep it off and stop playing with the spiders.

I asked my boss before I left (how I ever biked home is beyond me) if she would've believed me if I'd called in with this story. No way, no how...now get out of my sight.

(A year later, I was hired as Outreach Coordinator for Audubon Aquarium of the Americas - traveling to schools with small collections of live animals to introduce to the public. Even though non-lethal-to-human tarantulas were part of the group, we were never allowed to put them on our heads. As stewards of the animal kingdom, we strove to breakdown misconceptions over these animals that many people find detestable. So, that fun day when I carelessly tripped over the outstretched leg of a 3rd grader and lunged forward, Rosie held on to me with the only things she had - her fangs. Eighteen minutes later (I sat in the corner, breathing deeply, trying not to cry, listening to the kids ask my volunteer if Mr. Ken was going to die), she let go and it turned into a great teachable moment.

But just no spiders on the head anymore, please...


2. How did a nice boy from New York State end up in New Orleans?

Step 1 - Drop out of college, home to Watertown

Step 2 - Get job offer w/friend's company in Boston, move there

Step 3 - Meet cute, uptight guy - date until he takes job in New Orleans

Step 4 - Let cute guy woo me from afar for a year, visit NOLA and fall madly in love with the city

Step 5 - Decide it's time to take the plunge - and as a sign to each other, we both get tested for HIV (my first in 3 years, his first ever) - His -, Mine +

Step 6 - Recognize that New Orleans is where I am supposed to be right at that very point in my life - also find funny how my boss decides to "downsize" my job within weeks after telling her my status

Step 7 - Pack everything possible in my Ford Festiva (much funnier when you know I'm 6'4"), sell the rest and drive to Louisiana

Step 8 - Settle in to a whole new way of life in the Crescent City

3. You have a lot of "things" - clothes, pictures, toys, etc. What is your favorite thing?
My piano...it may not be a Steinway, but it's mine. Even when I go weeks (sadly) without playing, the muscle memory is still there of works I learned when I was 9 or 10. I missed it while evacuated for 3 1/2 months...but I was one of the lucky ones. It was still there when I got home.

4. You've taken a break from your blog. Why? And what do you hope to accomplish now that you're back?
About this time last year, I lost my crap. Up to that point, I'd mostly been blogging to get Post-Katrina demons out. It was safer than drinking heavily to silence them and cheaper than any of the very few therapists that were back in town.

But, I started a new job which I jumped feet first into - and then, almost immediately, ran into a world of personal relationship crap, from which I/we are just now emerging. During that time, i just didn't have it in me to blog. Add to that the fact that I still can't get internet service to my apartment...thank you, BellSouth...well, you get the picture.

So, after months of prodding from Soccer Mom In Denial (Fag Hag #1 in my book), I realized it was just time to get off my behind and start up again. I accept that I am doing it for entirely selfish reasons - I see it as a great chance to dust off my writing skills and stretch a bit artistically. Also, I can only tolerate so many inaccurate, galling news reports about the state of things here in New Orleans. Do you want to know what it's really like? Stay tuned...

5. Describe your typical Sunday. Awake by 7:30 to start vocalizing (I am the Bass section leader for our Methodist Church choir), iron my clothes (Soccer Mom, you may want to Google that expression... heehee), shower/shave (the full head) and at church for 10:30 warm-ups and 11AM service.

Back home after church and likely off to brunch with our gang. Or gardening. Or strolling through the Quarter with the BF.

If my voice is holding out, the afternoon may lead me to Good Friends, one of the fruit loop bars in the heart of the French Quarter, just the other side of the Lavendar Line (a local reference to the cross street that is traditionally the demarkation between the straight and gay sections of Bourbon Street - depending on the holiday, it can be a very hazy line). Tommy plays the piano there while people of all parts of society and all shades of sobriety sing (and bellow) along. Many years ago, a very tall, striking creature known as Velveeta Plauche made occasional appearances there, to host the Easter Bonnet Contest, or Miss High Hair or the Trailer Park Beauty Pageant...she's been away for some time, but I hear she's planning a visit to NOLA.

When the voice isn't up for it, I usually stay away from Good Friends. In addition to the church choir, I also sing (with the BF) in the Symphony Chorus of New Orleans - and showing up to those rehearsals still ragged from pretending I have all of Julie Andrew's high notes from her Sound of Music days...well, it isn't pretty. Mostly, BF and I grab take out from a neighborhood deli, curl up on his sofa and watch our guilty pleasures (Family Guy, American Dad).

In bed, asleep by 10PM. Such party animals...

6. What is the one thing about New Orleans you wish people knew?
I wish people knew the true beauty of New Orleans that comes from being in the city at times other than Mardi Gras

...from that azure sky in October that takes your breath away and tells you that summer is finally over!)

...from knowing where the locals eat and make music

...from seeing something other than Bourbon Street after your conference lets out

...from being here to witness the rebuilding of NOLA while others are still debating IF it should be rebuilt

...the true beauty that comes from really knowing and understanding that this city is so much more than the sum total of all the images and stories of Katrina and its aftermath.

I know that's not really just one thing, but it is to me.

April 1992

I met Soccer Mom 15 years ago this month, when we were both volunteering at a display of the Names Project AIDS Quilt in New Orleans. We were both relatively new to the city (especially by local standards...you can live here 50 years and still be an outsider to some), and young and adorable. Our jobs as volunteers was to help visitors find specific panels of loved ones, pass out tissues and listen. Sounds simple enough, right?

It was in my second day of volunteering that I bonded with SMID, and we started tag-teaming the visitors. There may have been fewer visitors to The Quilt that day, but they stayed longer...and many of them were moms. Having tested HIV positive less than a year prior to that weekend, they all started to look like my mom. And she didn't know yet.

Then we met Caledonia, still one of the most beautiful women I think I've ever seen. She talked on and on about her son, and I can't remember if his panel was even at this exhibition. As she talked, a few tears trickled down here face--but she wasn't so devestatingly sad...she was radiant. How she loved him, and how tenderly she spoke of his life and their wonderful relationship. I thought to myself, "When I grieve, please let it be like this." (At this point, I hadn't begun to think about my status in terms of mortality. Some parts shock, some parts denial.)

A little way off from us was a woman, clearly on a mission but unable to locate her son's panel. So, the four of us now set off to find it - a sensationally fabulous panel, gaudy - lovely - sparkly - and very personal, as they all are. I confess that I don't remember her name (or his), perhaps because little else registered after she started talking about managing her son's adult film career. SMID and I were a bit speechless (if you can imagine that of either of us), but Caledonia took over and started asking the mom questions - when was he born, what his favorite foods were, was he a gardener...and soon they were chatting like old friends. Soccer Mom and I backed away and let the moment spin.

I remember so much from that day...the hugs and the tears, and yes, the laughter too. I made a new friend in SMID...and walked away from the weekend knowing that when it was time to tell my mother that her worst fears were true, that it would be OK.

And it was...and I'm still here, 15 years later.

Those tricky cell phones

My boyfriend and I have many running jokes, one of which involves calling each other on the cell phone and asking "What are you wearing?" This actually started innocently enough after we discovered early in our dating days that we had similar wardrobes and had showed up to no less than 4 events/dates looking like twins whose parents dress them alike. And we both have shaved heads...you get the picture.

Now we ask it much more playfully, and if you know us, you understand that neither of us is drawn to salacious phone conversations. Usually it's just an indication that it's been a long day or difficult week and we're reaching that punchy state where everything is much funnier to us than the rest of the world.

It's been one of those weeks. A good friend of mine from Nashville (my evacuation boss) was in town last weekend, we've had numerous rehearsals and services to sing for Holy Week, and my BF is acting supervisor for the month. We both finally hit the wall last night, and decided that a mojito would set the evening on a much better keel (and living in the tropics, our mint grows rampantly). After talking on the phone briefly to make plans, my boyfriend called me back, having forgotten something.

Well, he tried to call back. Oops...by accident, he selected my Contact entry for work instead of my cell phone...and my boss answered "Hello?" and of course BF asked, "What are you wearing?" Apparently there was some silence, until BF asked if this was Ken, at which point my boss erupted into laughter, saying no, I'd already left for the day...

This should make for an interesting workday today. Thankfully, my boss has a good sense of humor and knows the BF...isn't technology grand?

Never sell yourself short

There will always be doubt and worry.

It's what you do or don't with either of those that makes all the difference. And we are all capable of far more than we can imagine on any average day. Thankfully, average days are very rare in New Orleans.

Last night, I discovered just how strong and similar love and insanity are. And, how each in their own ways can lead to the other. Doesn't each of us have to be a little bit insane to fall in love and stay there? And isn't love just it's own "special" kind of insanity?

Or maybe it was the fault of the pitcher of Margaritas that found its way into my blood stream. Who's to say?

All I know is that in the last 24 hours, I have learned more about my own ability to love...and go insane and come back...than I have in the whole entire rest of my life. And I have also learned that I have done some extraordinarily un-loveable things, and yet I still find myself being unconditionally loved by a very great man. Kinda takes my breath away.

"Love without reason, love without mercy, love without pride or shame...love unconcerned with being returned, no wisdom, no judgement, no caution, no blame. Not pretty or safe or easy, but more than I ever knew...love within reason--that isn't love...and I learned that from you." Stephen Sondheim's words from his stunning musical Passion.

The Real Mardi Gras

If you've never been to New Orleans, that really doesn't matter...In every home town in every part of this country, there is some celebration or parade or party of some stripe that could happen nowhere else in the world. This is our party...

Tonight, the crazies that are my friends and adopted family in the Big Easy will take to the streets for the Krewe du Vieux Parade, a satirical swipe at ALL the powers that be. This year's theme, not surprisingly, is C'est Levee! While the subject matter might seem too close to home for some folks, who better than the natives to take themselves to task. A good friend of mine is always reminding me (in a paraphrase of a Stephen King line) that gallows humor is funniest when it's your neck in the gallows. All this comes at a time when too many people are beginning to fray at the edges--after so many months of fighting the good fight, gutting homes, rebuilding lives and communities and generally holding their shit together--and we have never needed this most public of private celebrations more than we do now.

Maybe you won't ever be in town for our little party, either this parade or the grand madness that is Fat Tuesday, but that doesn't really matter. Somewhere in your heart of hearts, there will always be that one spark that you will always remember in that way...that always leads you back to those memories...of a home and way of life that you may have worried away...or just haven't looked hard enough for in a while.

We nearly lost all of this, some five and a half months ago...we may not be parading for anyone but ourselves, but is there really any other reason to join in the revelry. Happy Mardi Gras, y'all!

You'll know when you know

There is too much story to tell to make sense of it just now, but we are home. Some days, it is so much like it was when I left for vacation in early August...and some days, it is just as though the city is frozen in time after the flood waters receded, Katrina Patina covering all and everything...and a season's worth of decay and oxidation working its dark magic into the soul of the city.

Home. I knew I would have to return, but did not dare that I could be back this soon. No work just yet, not the kind your parents expect you to get and do...but the work is there, getting out to clean the neighborhood and wrench open the drains and catch basins and yank a lifetime supply of bottle and cans and gloves and works and obscure things (a Barbie doll leg, I ask you?) and to be seen in the neighborhood as just out doing something and being "there". Some days, it is all about being there.

Come to New Orleans, when you are ready. We want you to see how it really is...the media has done us a history of disservice from which we struggle to recover, an especially arduous uphill battle thanks to our self-destructing mayor and his chocolate city political suicide. Yeesh. But still and all, we want to come...maybe not just yet, but think about Jazz Fest or some quiet weekend. Prepare yourself for the worst and then enjoy the best we have to offer in spite of what you see and feel. We are home and some day, we want you to once again feel at home here too. After all, we have such a debt of gratitude to pay to the everyday people of this country who opened their hearts and lives to us when we could not be at home when we truly wanted to. Let us return the favor some day. For now, thank you.

All we had was that funny feeling

This is something I tried to write several times...apparently some part of me wasn't ready to let it out. It doesn't really matter now...but it was the next part of the story of what the hell happened to us. The date above is the first time I took a stab at it. The real date today is June 27, 2006...Your Ambassador

The weather had improved enough to move ahead with the next challenge--getting the plywood off the windows to get air in the building and let it begin to dry out (and hopefully create some ventilation...August is still August, hurricane or no...).

M and I ventured out onto the long balcony to start manually removing all the screws to get the boards down, when J said he was heading home to get his cordless rechargeable screwdriver from his apartment. M and I continued on in his absence, bouyed by the knowledge that this task was going to get much easier on his return. Minutes dragged by and then more than an hour and no J...

We finished the task at hand by ourselves and still no J...another hour or so and still no J...another hour and we were more than panic-sticken...where the hell was he? A little later he turned up, not quite understanding the dark current swirling through the condo...yes, we were relieved that he was ok but where the hell had he been? Passed out at his apartment. I have never been quite so quietly angry in a very long time, but that was nothing compared to the balancing act that M was attempting between absolute relief that J was ok and utter, paralyzing frustration and anger with J's apparent lack of judgement or concern for the greater good. Yes, we all slept poorly the night before and yes, we had all had a couple cocktails to get us through the storm, but we had no idea how much J had been drinking to help him to deal with all the many levels of crap he perceived he was facing. Funny, the friends we reach for in our darkest moments, eh?

This rolled over us and through us...and then the next obvious task was organizing dinner for the 8 remaining people in the whole condo. R and R from downstairs fired up the charcoal grill--and dinner of burgers and hot dogs and chips and such was thrown together with much nattering and fussing and awkward moments--one of the more obtuse (read fuck-head) residents was not so quietly inquiring as to the arrangement of M-me-J, when I leaned in and loudly said, "I'm the new boyfriend. Any other questions?" J resumed drinking through the evening and assured us that, given that we were all a little shaken by some of the "noises" we were already hearing, he would take the first watch of the night and then wake one of us around 3AM to take over. About an hour after the rest of us turned in, J passed out again--as L discovered when she came out to check on some new odd noises downstairs. So much for security issues.

The next day, the residents of B. House and their sundry associates (J and me) hit the street in front of the condo--slinging branches and trash up on the neutral ground to help clear the way for whatever services might need to travel our way to restore power to the neighborhood. With an odd assortment of rakes and shovels and hacksaws and M's truck, we managed to clear all of our block and then turned our attention to the catch basin for the drain nearest the front entrance. No wonder the street fills with water there when the rain comes at a its customary pace--there was so much trash and debris in their, stewing in the late summer swill that comes of stormy runoff.

It was during this part of the day that I spotted a police car slowly working its way down our end of Bourbon Street. My initial reaction turned out to be right, tho' no one including M believed me at first. "Guys, the cops are looking for gas tanks they can siphon out of." I had been paying special attention (read: anal) to the mayor's announcements about the citywide state of emergency and martial law--enforcement officials can commandeer a building, vehicle or its contents as they deem necessary. After a moment of doubt on everyone else's parts, we approached the cops and they admitted that they absolutely were working the neighborhood, seeking the older cars and vans and trucks that would be easiest to get into and liberate gas from. M had to talk them out of taking his, saying truthfully that if necessary, it would be our only way out of town. (On reflection, we never saw those two officers again and we have come to believe that they may have been looking for enough fuel to get themselves out of town and therefore become deserters. Mere speculation, but if that is what came to pass, may the Lord and their fellow officers have mercy on them.)

Finished with the morning grunt work, we grabbed a quick bite to each and then headed over to my apartment to collect the last of my food stores and bottled water and candles and everything else that might be of some remote usefulness to us all. We did discover during the course of the day that the condo still had land-line phone access, as long as you had a non-cordless phone...let's here it for the stone age! Chats with our friends B and V prompted us to head out in M's truck to not only traverse the city inspecting their respective homes, but also to ransack their kitchens for anything edible with their blessings (it was understood that any liquor not hidden or locked up was fair game too--martial law, you know). On the way to B's place, we retraced our path so many times due to the not-surprising number of downed trees and power lines and to the vast stretches of standing water through the vicinity. We finally got headed in the right direction, only to discover that the main road to B's flat was full...full of people and cars and water...more and more water...too much to risk forcing the truck through on a fool's errand.

So we turned around and headed back to the condo, only to encounter our first taste of the looting that would come to brand and stain the city so in the hours and days ahead. Breaking into the grocery store and Walgreen's for the necessities was something we could ultimately rationalize for anyone who suddenly had nothing. Were we among those ranks yet? No, thankfully...but it could have so easily been us. Then, there on the corner...people crawling out of the hole they had ripped in the side of the Beauty World...bags and boxes and armloads of supplies and product and weaves and crap...it wouldn't be the last time that day that my stomach would lurched in a way I'd never known before then.

Shaken by this, I was beginning to decompress in my head and physically started rocking in my seat...when I realized that M wasn't returning to the condo, but rather headed uptown toward V's pad. Nononononononononono I can't I can't take me back I can't do this I will not die this way don't make me do it I don't want to die this way why are you doing this to me...None of this I verbalized and this is the first I have made mention of it since. On and on we drove, near to the river as we could along Tchoupitoulas Street, driving the wrong way on one way streets at times to avoid the largest of the fallen trees...Other than downed trees and the buildings, there was much less catastrophic damage than we had expected to see. A new ugly parking garage which we all hated had been partially ripped away much to our very dark glee...favorite ancient haunts of ours, still standing as they had for more than a hundred years...and then the Wal-Mart...scores of peole, trailing away with shopping carts overflowing with everything...absolutely everything...clothes and food and guns and toys and bikes and TVs and stereos and absolutely everything.

We drove on, quietly appalled, but unhindered by human confrontation. At last our journey led us past the Zoo, which we could see little of other than the morass of fallen trees and abandoned vehicles. Moments later, we uneventfully arrived at V's house, grateful to discover that the China Ball tree smack in front of the house had fallen JUST to the side of it, ever so slightly grazing it but doing no discernible damage. The little victories are huge at a time like that...and then across the street, the little grocery run by a fabulous and kind man of Vietnamese heritage who kept the store name of Singleton's was spotted to be open--and we scored some more food and water and most importantly (tho' I could not have known this then) a carton of cigarettes for J. After a quick assessment of the treasure that V's kitchen held, we took the lot and her toilet paper and candles and a stack of her best towels and hit the road for the French Quarter.

This is still only the day after Hurricane Katrina made landfall over Southeast Louisiana. We did not leave for two more days.

This does not begin to answer for you as to where J and M and I are at now in this unexpected friendship...because the story gets much worse and I hate myself for some of the things I thought at the time, because I know the reasons now...but there is so much story that I will try to continue telling it if I can bear to pick up this thread again...

Not that the truth really matters...

In my arrogant hours prior to the arrival of Hurricane Katrina, I emailed everyone in my address book the following:


Hello, everyone...

I am emailing you from our fortress in New Orleans where we are very prepared to ride out the storm that is approaching the Gulf South. We made the decision to stay when the city made its mandatory evacuation order this morning at an unfathomable point--the interstates are so gridlocked and almost all the gas stations are already tapped. We have provisions for more than a week's stay here and several other people in the building with whom to pool resources and energy. The building itself is high and surrounded by other large strong buildings--this part of New Orleans is higher than most (not saying much, I know) but we are as safe as possible and could not rationalize trying to flee in the heavy traffic and find ourselves trapped on the interstate when the worst of the storm comes. And it will come...

This storm will have some major effects on South Louisiana, and we want to be here to be able to do something about it, rather than be trapped away from here for week or two, not knowing the state of affairs. Light those candles, say those prayers and keep a close watch on the news. I can be reached here as long as my work cell phone can be charged and that number is 504 *** ****. Please do not call in unnecessarily. Be assured that we will take no stupid chances and that we are in a position to make the best of what will likely be a very bad situation. I will contact everyone through email as soon as I can when there is news to tell.

It's going to being a long stretch here--be patient and I will be in touch as much as possible. Talk to everyone soon. Love, Ken

That was Sunday afternoon, August 28th, 2005. Dear God, what were we thinking?

The journey that would follow our decision to stay goes on...and now it's time to tell the whole story.

This is where we began...

To prepare for the storm, we spent Saturday morning in a mind-numbing line, waiting to buy plywood to cover the upper windows on the condo and then dashed home to make as many contacts as we could before settling in for an evening of take-out, good wine, and somewhat uneasy sleep. Sunday, we got up and made another dash to the market for a buttload of supplies and such with which to ride out the storm as we had done so many times before and then hurried back to the condo to "get ready." Hahaha...

J. called during this later time and M. asked me if I had a problem with him coming over to stay with us. "No problem here," I lied. "It's a hurricane--where else is he going to go."

Two truths: I did not want him there, owing to a great mistrust from the previous three months' history AND he did have other options that would have kept him safe and sound through the storm and out of harm's way. How could I know that lying about something like that could change my life forever?

M. and I started working like madmen, trying to organize food and water and batteries and toilet paper and people and clean clothes and an old farty dog and several flighty neighbors. The big focus for the afternoon was the effort of getting the plywood installed--Dr. G. from the condo is afraid of heights so he was of minimal help--but we at least predrilled all the holes in the boards and laid everything out to expedite the process. We got the 8 windows covered as best we could and then returned to the other internal issues of resources. J. appeared later with some of the essentials (propane, rum and cigarettes) and the evening progressed--a light dinner and a movie (ironically enough The Life Aquatic...). We all retired for the evening, as restless as we were--having paused the movie too many times to count to check on the status of Hurricane Katrina...reassuring each other that she was beginning to wobble thus and drift there and speed through and vear away and on and on and on...

Some time during the night, the wind picked up and started humming through the closed shutters to the french doors. If Satan played the harmonica, I think it would sound something like that. We all woke early, 5:30ish and were instantly glued to the images on the TV, showing us that the worst of the worst was just going to skirt us but it would be bad...very bad before it improved and to be prepared for the worst case scenario. Soon enough, the power winked out and we were plunged into that eerie semi-darkness that rarely occurs outside of storms like this. The wind continued its rage all day, along with the seventh circle muzak...branches creeked and swayed and shuddered and finally snapped...trees were simply denuded in a matter of minutes during the strongest gusts...and all we could do is make small talk and check the walls and doors and sashes for possible leaks and remind each other to eat something because you won't be of any use to us if you fall over faint from exhaustion. Strangely, we were each able to collapse at different times for tense naps that were welcome yet hardly refreshing.

After several hours--this was the beginning of the suspension of time as we knew it--things eased up and we braved a look outside and around the building and throughout the neighborhood. Can this really be? There were so many trees, bare as empty coatracks...branches strewn about carelessly like giant lincoln logs, thicker than our waists...covering our beautiful avenue with such contradictory destruction and devastation that it was scarcely registering at all. Time and place and focus were removed from any recognizable structure and still have yet to return. What we did not know of the worst the city would face in the very near future was ultimately, we know now, one of the greatest mercies we would receive in all of this. The unthinkable was about to become our reality...

The Song of Unquenchable Desire

It seems unfair and demeaning of me to use references to wars that I did not live through, and yet, the only thing that my mind returns to is every picture of every bombed out city in Europe through to the end of World War II...this is the thing that I cannot strike from my mind's eye, now that I am back out of the remains of the city of New Orleans. We drove in by a different route this time, finally able to come in along Interstate 10...it's funny that only now, I remember the first Louisiana joke I ever learned during my early days there..."What's the only good thing to ever come out of Alabama? I-10!" Not so funny anymore..

Our trip brought us through Slidell and then finally into New Orleans East and afforded us the views of monstrous dumping sites burgeoning with debris of innumerable sources and unstoppable stench. Passing exit after exit in the East, we could see every surface was covered with a ghostly (ghastly?) film...every car dealership with its wares dressed out in their finest Katrina Patina, as we have heard it called. Once marshy spots have dried up and crackled like the great salt flats, owing to the ironic fact that the region has had little to no rain since Rita skirted by. Brush fire, anyone? The wetlands have turned to prairie and lawns to deserts. We found ourselves unable to stop comparing the waterline marks from neighborhood to neighborhood, grimly speculating what it had looked like and what anyone's chances for salvaging the smallest tokens would be.

I am struggling with the idea of so much wasteland, for all that this word means now, in this once lush, pseudo-tropical purgatory...and even more with the odd, nearly desperate struggle for a kind of normality in the French Quarter. The Quarter was never normal...stop trying to do something even more unnatural to it now. Let it mourn and let it heal. What at first appears to be the spirit of initiative and the drive to rebuild are poorly masked frustration and yearning that border on not-so-quiet anger and pervasive denial. What use is there in pretending that it's all ok when it spectacularly isn't? People are returning in great numbers and businesses are reopening and there are jobs of certain kinds to be had and all of that is good...No, not just good, but wonderful and amazing and breathtaking. But give it all time to mend itself well and be ready for the wounds to need dressing for years to come. Be part of the healing...but choose the right tools, the right medicine.

New Orleans, and the rest of southeast Louisiana, has always tolerated life with a sense of an acceptable level of tragedy, knowing that each year, some hamlet would flood or a shrimp boat would sink or 500 more residents would be murdered or several more politicians would be indicted but seldom convicted or that someone's favorite restaurant would close or that the school board would find new ways to deny our students the education they deserve or another legendary musician would pass on to the next Big Gig. All of those, individually and sometimes collectively, were always all bearable...and often were the very things that allowed us to see all the other extraordinarily beautiful treasures around us, even if it was the simple, earnest hello from another local as you passed them on the street. It took me far too long to get over my initial reaction to that--you would never greet someone so idly, so carelessly, especially a stranger, in my former life in New England, without first counting the cost or benefit. For the longest time, I was sure that people were "smiling in my face, but peeing in my cocktail." I could not have been more wrong.

It is exactly that predisposition of locals (and those who eventually become locals) to engage the rest of the world, to invite y'all to nothing more than a passing pleasantry and make the day the slightest bit better for it. It is qualities like this, and the desire to take care of each other and every single person who ever set foot in our fair city, that reassure me that there will be a kind of Mardi Gras some day, that will almost but not quite entirely seem like something I remember...and that the word "debris" will take on other layers of meaning, but will eventually once again become associated with blissfully messy, gut-churning po'boys...that I will marvel at how azure blue the sky is over all the rooftops and think how very lucky I am that the city picked me to live there. To be sure, for now there is great disquiet in New Orleans, but there is also great desire...is it really any coincidence that the word "Desire" can mean so many different things to so many people on one day, and the all the same thing the next?